


Days Like Dominoes

by standbygo



Series: Days Like Dominoes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Drug-Induced Sex, Dubious Consent, Inspired by Music, M/M, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-23
Updated: 2015-09-23
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:03:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4860584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/standbygo/pseuds/standbygo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pre-"Study in Pink". Sherlock's release from rehab and adjustment to life without drugs. Plus an unexpected person from his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Days Like Dominoes

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt is from ResidentBunburyist:
> 
> Days like dominoes  
> All in a line…  
> And just before I leave  
> I throw up in the sink  
> One whole life recorded  
> In disappearing ink  
> And Ray left a message thumbtacked to the door  
> I don't even bother trying to read them anymore…  
> \- Lakeside View Apartment Suites, The Mountain Goats

“And how are we today?”

Sherlock keeps himself still, taciturn. “ _I_ am fine,” he says, emphasizing the pronoun.

Dr. Silva radiates joviality, but Sherlock can smell the desperation underneath it. “I thought we could discuss your post-treatment plan today.”

Sherlock’s face hurts from not rolling his eyes. Any perceived setback that would keep him in rehab a moment longer must be avoided, even if it means dealing with fools such as this. “Fine.”

Silva claps his hands, then folds them over his indulgent belly. “So?”

“So what?”

“What are your plans?”

Sherlock shrugs, the gesture one degree shy of scornful. “Go on with my life?”

“More specific, please? For instance, where will you live?”

“I can find a flat.”

“Where? How?”

“I have connections.”

Silva leans forward, concern painted on his face. “William,” he says, and Sherlock cringes inwardly again. When he had first arrived at the clinic everyone had called him by his first name; apparently that was how his entry papers had been processed. He had allowed it, the name being one more way to distance himself from this place. “William. The post-rehab phase can be very challenging. The temptation to return to drugs will be very, very strong. All of the decisions you make need to be conscious decisions to avoid that temptation.”

Sherlock leans forward as well, closer to Silva’s florid, sweaty face. “Dr. Silva. I have been in your… facility for six weeks. I have submitted to all treatments recommended. I wore a paper gown for the first week, and then medical scrubs that have been worn by God knows how many people before me and had a texture reminiscent of sandpaper. I have attended group sessions with people who leave the better part of their intellect behind on their pillow in the mornings. I have tolerated all of this for one reason only – that I will never have to do it again.”

“Still, William. Would it not be better to stay with family for at least the first six months? Your brother, perhaps?”

Sherlock does not answer, just glares at Silva.

Silva sighs. “And work? How will you earn your living?”

“I will return to the work I was doing before.”

“Ah. With the Met.”

“Yes.”

“And they’ll take you back, will they?”

Sherlock blinks. “Of course. They need me.”

Silva shuffles through some papers. “Detective Inspector – ah, Lestrade, was it?”

“Yes, he-” Sherlock is suddenly abashed, but doesn’t allow it to show. “He said I could not return to work until I was clean. I am clean, ergo, I shall return to work.”

“Did he make that promise to you in writing?”

Sherlock says nothing, and refuses to allow doubt to seep into his mind. The Work was what he needed, what would keep him from going insane without the drugs.

Silva clears his throat. “Perhaps we can work on a Plan B, yes? What are some other skills that you could apply?”

Sherlock looks at him and sees his release fading away. _Enough of this_ , he thinks. He scans Silva, finds what he needs, smiles.

“Maths,” he says happily. “I’m quite good at maths. I believe you are as well, Dr. Silva. Perhaps you can give me some… tips… about how to apply those skills?”

+

Sherlock is released from the clinic three days later, ahead of schedule. Mycroft is waiting in a car outside.

“Welcome back to the world, brother,” Mycroft smirks as Sherlock slides into the car. “Pray tell, how did you manage this?”

“Silva’s an embezzler, been falsifying the books for years, lining his pockets.”

A frown creases Mycroft’s forehead, and he takes out a little notebook and writes something. “Interesting,” he says as he puts the book back in his breast pocket. His face gentles a little; Sherlock looks away. “Sherlock, I reiterate my offer to stay at-”

“No.”

“Sherlock-”

“I’d rather have my stomach pumped. Again. Hourly.”

Mycroft’s mouth twists, then masks himself again. “All right. I shall not repeat the offer, but it stands nonetheless.” He hands Sherlock a large manila envelope. Sherlock rips it open, and a credit card and a mobile slide out.

“The credit card should cover your immediate needs, I think, but please note that the cashback function has been blocked. I will see all receipts. The mobile is fully functional, of course, but certain numbers have been permanently blocked.”

“For God’s sake, Mycroft!”

“I understand your desire for independence, Sherlock, but your rehabilitation is hardly complete.”

“I won’t use again, Mycroft.”

Mycroft sighs. “Still,” he says.

Sherlock stares out the window, his lips pressed together. He watches the trees and fields whip past the window, and strains his eyes to catch his first glimpse of London.

+

The car rolls through the streets of London, with Sherlock drinking up the view out the window. Mycroft drones on, but Sherlock ignores him.

Suddenly Sherlock says, sharply, “Stop! Stop the car!”

The car pulls over and Sherlock opens the door before it comes to a full stop. He is a bit surprised and shocked when Mycroft grabs his wrist.

“For God’s sake, Sherlock! Can you not wait until you’re more than two hours out of rehab before you-”

Sherlock laughs meanly. “You think I saw a dealer? That I’m going for a hit? Mycroft,” he says, scolding, patronizing. “You’re losing your touch.”

He points behind him at the sign in the window: ‘Montague Suites – Room to Let’.

+

The landlord is gaunt, greasy, has a heart condition, and a masturbation habit that astonishes Sherlock.

“No parties. No loud music. No drugs. No girlfriends. Laundromat five blocks west. No cooking in the room.”

“Fine,” Sherlock says impatiently, and holds his hand out for the key.

The landlord moves his gum from one side of his mouth to the other, chews for a moment, his mouth open. Sherlock can see the pink of the chewing gum, the blood-red colour of the man’s gums, the grey of his teeth. The man’s halitosis almost takes substance, greenish brown and hazy. Sherlock swallows back his nausea.

Finally the landlord lays the key on Sherlock’s gloved palm.

Sherlock walks into the room, pointedly turning his back to the landlord. He glances around at the dirty beige walls, the beige coverlet on the bed. The window is covered with a grey film. The blinds are yellow with old cigarette smoke.

 _It’s just a place_ , Sherlock thinks. _It will be better once my things are here. My microscope, my pictures, my books-_

Suddenly his head jerks up, and he shouts at the landlord’s retreating back.

“Bookshelves! I’ll need bookshelves!”

The landlord looks back at him slowly, disbelief and scorn spreading over his face. “Well, I guess you’ll need to buy some, won’t you?”

+

Sherlock lies on the bed, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling. The sheets are rough and stink of bleach, like sleeping on a layer of crisps left in a public loo. He has laid his suit jacket over the pillow, pulled his coat back on for warmth. He focuses on feel of the silk lining of his jacket against his head. He has opened the window, and listens to the soft melody of the city at night. The sound has almost lulled him to sleep, when cacophony startles him awake.

The room to his left has exploded with noise. After a moment he realizes that the sound is meant to be music, but it is filled with rough and incoherent screams, screeching guitars and a thrumming and monotonous drum beat. To his right, as though in cooperation, he hears the syncopated thump of a headboard against the shared wall; a man’s grunts, a woman’s squeals.

Sherlock groans and turns face down into his pillow.

+

His belongings arrive the next day. The boxes stack as high as Sherlock’s chest, and nearly fill the room. Sherlock pushes boxes back and forth until he creates a path between the bed and the door.

Whoever had packed for him – one of Mycroft’s lackeys, probably – clearly packed quickly, with no thought or care for categorization. Chemistry equipment lumped together with history books, reference tomes with his bullet collection. It makes Sherlock’s skin prickle, but he can do nothing about it. There’s no space to unpack.

+

He goes to a corner store and buys a case of pot noodles, using his credit card. He goes to a posh gourmet food shop and buys a case of premium grade Russian caviar. He gloats as he imagines the look on Mycroft’s face when those receipts come in.

+

He stands on the perimeter of the crime scene, the yellow police tape flapping against his belly. He is surrounded by curious and witless passers-by, all craning their necks – “Is it a murder?” – hoping to see blood.

He stands there until Lestrade looks up and sees him. Then he eases back through the crowd and walks away.

+

He stands at the window, looking down at the street, three stories down. He is wearing headphones, but the drumbeat of the music next door creeps through the foam and rubber, pushes aggressively into his ears. He stirs a heaping spoonful of caviar into his pot noodles, drinks the broth.

He watches the people on the street. Graduate student (medieval studies); rent boy; social worker; potential client for rent boy; dealer –

Sherlock closes the blinds abruptly.

+

Sherlock walks all over London. At first he walks on the busy city streets, hoping to find comfort in the press of the crowd. But soon there’s too much, too much information, everyone’s stories crushing him, voices filling his head with chatter, and he has to go into an alley, isolate himself until his brain quiets. He wishes he could physically vomit out the information, but instead presses his forehead against the cool and rough brick until he can calm down.

+

Another crime scene. This one’s a double murder, no doubt. Sherlock can smell the copper tang of blood in the air. He stands at the perimeter, the scene tantalizingly out of reach. He can see Lestrade, but his back is turned, speaking with several officers.

“Thought that was you, freak.”

He turns and sees Sergeant Donovan. “Sally. Long time.”

“Not long enough.” She stares at him, arms folded. “He didn’t call you. I know he didn’t.”

Sherlock does not dignify this with an answer.

“You can’t stop here.”

“I’m outside the perimeter,” he says. He doesn’t look at her. “I’m on a public pavement.”

“Want to know what I think?”

“Not particularly.”

Sally leans in. “Once a junkie, always a junkie.”

Sherlock walks away.

+

He looks at the shelves of pot noodles, trying to imagine if the chicken flavour will be any more palatable.

“Sherlock?” he hears behind him.

He turns, and the world goes quiet. “Victor.”

Victor grins at him, swinging a bottle of Coca-Cola in his hand like a bell. “Haven’t seen you in ages, darling. What have you been up to?”

“Guess,” Sherlock says, and turns back to the shelves.

Victor laughs. “See you around,” he says. He steps into Sherlock’s peripheral vision, holds the pop bottle up to his face, and sniffs loudly along the white line of the logo. Then he walks away.

Sherlock hears the clink of a coin on the counter, the squeak of the door opening, the bang as it shuts. The ambient noise of the shop slowly returns, like the volume on a stereo.

+

He goes home, another case of pot noodles (shrimp) tucked under his arm. He throws the noodles on the bed and frantically digs through the boxes until he finds his violin case. He gently and carefully picks up the violin, adjusting the pegs, plucking the strings until he is satisfied with its tone.

 _Mendelssohn_ , he thinks. _Mendelssohn always helps_. He lifts his bow and begins to play.

He’s barely ten measures in when he is startled by a violent banging on the door.

“Oi! Holmes! No loud music!”

The bow and violin hang from his hands as he stares at the door in astonishment.

+

He can’t sleep with the headphones on. The harsh music from the neighbours carves itself into his brain, but doesn’t stop the memories he has tried to delete.

+

_“You’re Sherlock, right? Sherlock Holmes?”_

_“Yeah.”_

_The man smiled, dazzling teeth, a shark’s smile. “Victor Trevor. I remember you from uni. I’m a friend of Nigel’s.”_

_Sherlock couldn’t remember who Nigel was at that moment. “Okay,” he said, and the word dragged on for about a year._

_“You high?” Victor said._

_“Not enough.”_

_Victor leaned in, close. Sherlock shivered. “I can help you with that,” Victor said into his ear._

_*_

_Sherlock lay back on the bed. He was coming down already, and his skin itched against the wool blanket._

_“Ready?” Victor said._

_Before Sherlock could say anything, he felt the prick in his arm. He took a sharp breath in, and suddenly all the noise in the universe dropped out. He could hear his alveoli puffing up with oxygen, sighing out carbon dioxide. He could feel each individual prickle of the blanket, knew the origins of each sheep whose wool was knitted into it. His eyes and mouth stretched open. He gasped, his throat ripping raw. His back arched. He was in the middle of an orgasm, and he stayed there and stayed there._

_Victor slid his hand under his shirt, and Sherlock could feel the individual skin cells sloughing off Victor’s palm. His nipples were sharp needles, and Victor’s giant hands were pulling at them. Sherlock laughed, and heard Victor’s laugh come from his own mouth._

_The next thing he knew he was on his front, his face in the pillow and he thought he was splitting in half_

_the next thing he knew after that he was in a bathtub ice bumping up against his skin like miniature glaciers people were shouting but he didn’t care_

_the next thing he knew after that was Mycroft’s face three point six centimeters away shouting Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock_

_The next thing he knew after that was waking up in the rehab clinic._

+

Sherlock opens the window, leans out. It’s cold, and his skin puckers up. He sucks the icy air into his lungs. He stands in the window until he feels his muscles jump and quiver, then closes the window.

He picks up his phone, sends a link of a newspaper article to Lestrade. Then he sends another text:

_Let me see the victim’s garden shed. -SH_

He stretches out on the bed, the mobile over his heart. It’s set to vibrate. He falls asleep.

+

He goes for a walk, but chooses Regent’s Park over the streets this time. He walks around and around the Outer Circle, his head down.

When he passes the Baker Street gate for the third time, he hears a voice behind him. “Sherlock?”

He turns, and blinks. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Oh sweetheart!” she cries, and throws her arms around him. “I just knew that was you! I’d know that head of hair anywhere!”

“Why are you here?” he says, and it’s not a sharp question, but genuine curiosity.

“I couldn’t bear Florida any more, dear,” she says. “It’s just so hot, I couldn’t move, couldn’t think. And all the people are so wrinkly there. I wanted to come home. I just never felt at home there, you know, even after…”

“Quite right,” he says. He realizes that he is smiling. It feels unfamiliar, but good.

She gently pats his lapel, and he thinks of how long since he’d been touched without his wanting to writhe away. “Do you know, I bought a house? Just down Baker Street. I’ll rent out the rooms, live like a queen on the income.” She suddenly hugs him again. “Oh, I’m so happy to see you! But you’re too skinny, dear. Not eating enough, I know you.” She looks up at him, cheerful and wheedling. “Come for tea?”

+

He walks home, stuffed full of scones and jam and mince pies. He feels drunk on sugar and carbohydrates, his ears buzzing with Mrs. Hudson’s meaningless chatter.

He is unlocking the street door when he hears Victor’s voice behind him. “Hello darling.”

Sherlock curses his food-muddled brain for its lack of observation. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to focus, realign his brain. He lowers the portcullis in his mind.

“Leave me alone, Victor.”

“But I’ve missed you, baby.”

Sherlock turns and stares at Victor. His smile is still wide and brilliant, but Sherlock can see past it now, despite the baked goods muffling his mind.

“You think I don’t remember but I do. I remember everything. You left before my brother arrived. You left as soon as you realized I was overdosing. Got away clean. But now – oh, I see. Nigel got arrested, didn’t he? He’s in prison, and you were left high and dry, if you’ll pardon the expression, without a dealer. So you stepped into his place, took over the business. Picked up his customers. But it’s hard to turn a profit when your net disappears up your nose, isn’t it, Victor?”

Victor’s smile has faded by degrees. Sherlock steps in closer. “You don’t want me. You want my money. My trust. My inheritance. Straight out of my account, into my veins, into your pocket.”

Sherlock leaned closer, his face in Victor’s. “You need me more than I need you. And I don’t need you.”

Victor is silent, his mouth now hanging loosely open. Sherlock smirks, turns, lets himself in. Closes the door quietly behind him. Locks.

+

It is midnight, and Sherlock is eating one of the meat pies Mrs. Hudson sent home with him, when he realizes that the rooming house is quiet. No music. He feels suddenly bereft.

+

He gets a text in the morning from Lestrade.

_You remember our deal?_

He taps a message in reply.

_Of course. –SH_

Less than a minute later the reply comes.

_You’d better._

And then an address.

Sherlock grabs his coat.

_On my way. –SH_

+

He returns hours later, elated. His pockets are bulging with evidence bags full of dirt and grass clippings and paint chips. He’ll go to the lab in the morning.

He’s unlocking the door to his room when his neighbour to the left slides out of her door. She’s tinier than Sherlock had expected, with bright purple hair, heavy work boots and a handmade dress. She glances at him and nods minutely.

She is half way down the corridor when he surprises himself by calling out, “Hey.”

She stops, turns. “Yeah?”

He finds himself flushing. “That music – the music you’ve been playing.”

Her posture switches to defensive. “Yeah? What about it? You can rat me out to the landlord if you want, I don’t give a fuck, I’m moving out of this shithole anyway.”

“No, I – it’s-” Sherlock swallows. “What’s it called?”

She blinks in surprise, tilts her head and appraises him. Then she returns to her door, opens it, goes in. After a moment she returns and hands him the CD. “Knock yourself out,” she said. “It was my boyfriend’s, and he’s scarpered with some waitress, so you can have it.”

She’s gone before Sherlock remembers to say, “Thanks.”

+

Sherlock slides the CD into his stereo, turns up the volume. He pushes boxes out of the way, creates a small space in the middle of the room.

The guitars crash in, and the vocalist launches into a throat splitting wail. Sherlock closes his eyes and lets the music sweep around him. His hands roll up into his hair, clutching at it, and he begins to dance.

He dances out his rage, his fury with Mycroft, with Silva, with Victor, with the world. The drums fill his heart, forcing its atrial beat to change, to conform to their own uncompromising rhythm. He feels the desire, the craving for the drugs shake along the edges of his muscles, down to the ends of his fingers, his nails glowing with it, and out. He dimly hears someone thumping at the door, but he has jammed the only chair under the doorknob, and ignores the sound. He dances until he is no longer in control of the dance, the music pushing him around the space he’s created for himself.

He dances until he is soaked with sweat and his hair hangs in his face. _No more_ , he dances. _No needing, no wanting. Just me_. _Just The Work_. _No more_.

Sherlock collapses onto his bed, his breath heaving. The CD ends.

+

He sweeps into Bart’s lab the next morning. Molly looks stunned to see him.

“Sherlock,” she stutters. “I haven’t – you’ve-”

“Nice to see you too, Molly,” he says, pulling the evidence bags out of his pockets. “Anyone using the confocal microscope for the next six hours or so?”

+

He takes a cab home, the elation of a near-victory of a case almost solved humming in his veins. He unlocks the door and is brought up short by the sight of the landlord standing in the entryway.

The man sets his jaw, squints. “I want you out by the end of the week, Holmes.”

Sherlock blinks. “What?”

“I’ve had enough of your shenanigans. Noise all the time. All that crap in your room. Prancing around at all hours. I’ve a respectable house here.”

Sherlock cannot help the snort that escapes him. The landlord’s eyes go dark, hooded.

“And I’m no messenger service neither,” he says, handing an envelope to Sherlock. “Tell your poncey friend to use a stamp, not pin the letter to the door.”

Sherlock opens the envelope.

_Hello darling,_

_What a lovely home you’ve created for yourself, Sherlock. I really like what you’ve done with the place._

_Our last conversation ended so abruptly. We really need to continue it, and soon. You should know better than that, Sherlock. You know it’s not that simple._

_I’ve left you a little present. Just a little hint of what I’ve got to offer. I’ve put it with your things – it will be just like an Easter Egg hunt, a little mystery for you. Good luck finding it. And remember, duckie, that if you ever feel inclined to share certain information with the Met, all it would take is a little phone call from me to let them know you’ve been hoarding Easter Eggs. You greedy boy._

_You know how to find me._

_V_

Sherlock feels himself go cold.

“End of the week,” he says to the landlord.

+

He returns to the lab just after dawn the next morning. He has already been working for several hours when Molly comes in, chatting to a co-worker.

“Oh! Sherlock!” she says. “You’re here early.”

“How observant of you,” he says distantly.

“Um, have you met Stamford? Mike Stamford?”

The man approaches him, his hand out. “Yes, hello, I believe we met at the-”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, focusing on the microscope, but his mind still whirling with images – the letter, the greasy landlord, pot noodles and caviar, Victor leaning close over his pop bottle.

He blinks, then glances up at Stamford. _Married, happily, slight hypertension, teaches, friendly with a wide variety of people – oh._ He thinks of Mrs. Hudson’s basement flat and the stink of mould; then of the upstairs flat with two rooms, the big windows, the bookshelves.

“Mike, you’re a likely person to know this,” Sherlock says. “How does one find a flatmate?”

Stamford blinks. “Ah, I dunno. Ask around, I guess.”

Sherlock stares at him. “Isn’t that what I’m doing?”

“Ah. Right. Well, what are you looking for? Like, what kind of person?”

“I’ve no idea. What kind of person would want me for a flatmate?”

Stamford grins. “Got me, mate.”

Sherlock shrugs and returns to the microscope. “Never mind then. By the way, Molly, have you a corpse to spare?”

+

Sherlock returns to the lab several hours later, his muscles aching pleasantly from his latest experiment. He returns to his work at the microscope. He is analysing the flake of green metal paint from the crime scene when he hears the door of the lab open.

“Bit different from my day,” he hears.

Sherlock looks up, and the universe goes quiet except for the drumbeat of Sherlock’s heart.

 

_End_

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A short story or vignette to the person who correctly guesses the song Sherlock dances to!


End file.
